Burning Questions, Part 251: Disney.

Be our guest [to supply some answers].

We've recently begun unrolling the classic movies to our kids, and we're currently on a Disney kick. (I'm digging this phase, as I can recall seeing most of these in the theater and thoroughly enjoying them then, too. For instance, I once had a date take me to see The Lion King. The Lion King. Like, not even the Broadway one. The animated Simba. I was sixteen. I so digress.)

Anyhow, yesterday afternoon we watched Beauty and the Beast. Again. (Nora loves her some Belle, but does not care for Gaston or, as she refers to him, Moonstone.)

P.J. walked in during the prologue and was struck by a crucial, heretofore unnoticed point: The enchantress has cast a spell on the horrid prince whom, we're led to believe, is of Key Decision-Making Age. (In my experience with males, this would be roughly 26 years old. But let's give Pre-Beast the benefit of the doubt and say he was mid teen-aged.) And, as everyone knows, the enchanted rose is to bloom until the Beast's 21st birthday, at which point it will start to wither and die tout de suite. Unless someone learns to love and be loved by a beast. (Impossible!)

So.

You're telling me that there's an orphaned, teen-aged prince living somewhere in France, who suddenly and irrevocably is turned into a monster and NOT ONE PERSON IN THE SURROUNDING DUCHY NOTICES? And it's just to be assumed that he did not know one single body who lived outside of the castle walls? No occasionally visiting ambassadors? Tradesmen, troubadours, apple vendors- no one?

Even Belle and her father- who are apparently within a five hour hike of the place- have never heard of this guy? I call shenanigans on his royalty and demand to see some papers.

Also, curses aside, am I to believe that an entire castle can turn to ruins in a matter of five years? We've seen that the staff of candles, clocks and teapots can quite obviously shine up the place in the time it takes to sing a welcoming dinner song, so what gives? If it's a Doom and Gloom kinda spell (and/or the kind of magic that prevents a person from knowing something exists), then the castle crew shouldn't be able to just spring to life for a visitor- nor should Belle ever have been able to just walk into the joint like it was a Howard Johnson's [with shredded tapestries].

QUESTIONS.

This might be a stellar time to take a second and thank all of our veterans and those brave souls currently serving our country. I do realize that I am freed up to blog about film inconsistencies, creatures residing in my house, and awful song lyrics because of the terrific men and women who have protected it. So I thank you. (All.) I could never in a trillion years do what you do (and have done).

Some of us are just slightly better suited to the Yelling At Inanimate Objects line of work.

Keely Rants At Her Kid's Clothing.

Resting up.

So, Nora has this shirt. It's a hand-me-down, as we're lucky enough to have most of her clothing be. It's short-sleeved, and features gold scrolling writing that spells out:

"Where's My Prince Charming?"

And for some reason (that I couldn't put my finger upon until today) this passively phrased tee bothered me. Now, don't get me wrong. I love princes and princesses. Dollhouses. Fairies n' mermaids n' trolls n' dressing up. I love makeup and crowns. Disney movies. Happily ever afters.

But now I've realized why it bothers me. (And I'll address my answer directly to my daughters):

1. Nora, Susannah, listen up. You don't necessarily need someone (prince, charming, or otherwise) to come get you and complete your story. There are many, many adventures out there. On some, you'll want companionship. On others, you might want to go it alone. That's totally great, too. (As long as you check in with your mother.)

2. In the short time that I've known both of you, it's left very little doubt in my mind that you'll never really need to ask that scrolled question aloud.

3. And finally, if and when you decide that you do need a Prince Charming (or Princess Charmingette, it really makes no difference to your Dad and me as long as this Royal treats you with respect and makes you wildly happy- and coming from money wouldn't hurt our feelings, either)...if and when this becomes a necessity...don't just sit around waiting for him to come fetch you.

Go find him yourself.

Duct Tape House, Part- Oh, I Give Up.

I'd leave, if my shoes weren't filled with Little People.

Remember how, way back on Monday, I realized that I had taunted fate by posting about the hilarity of the previous Thursday's bodily fluid debacle? Well, I got my comeuppance once again by continuing to post about said fluids- this time in the form of a sewer explosion.

And I'm going to do it again, simply by referencing last Monday's travails. I'm totally like a kid who keeps pushing an irate parent into more and more groundings.

"Wanna make it two weeks?"

"Great."

"Fine, three weeks."

"Terrific."

The plumbers came early yesterday morning to check their work- which, up to this point, had consisted of fixing numerous pipes, filling in a cesspool, and pouring concrete all over the lower level of our house. Basically, today they were going to run a smoke test and make sure that no smoke escaped into our home- meaning, of course, that our pipes possessed zero holes from which smoke could travel.

When they arrived, we greeted them with some unfortunate news. From the time they left the night before until that a.m., we had run the dishwasher and done a few loads of laundry, and a horrific smell not unlike rotten eggs being shoved into your nostrils was filling the entirety of the house. That's right, whereupon before any of this work had been done the smell had been confined to the lower level, now it was permeating the entire abode.

The plumbers were pretty sure what the smoke test was gonna show them. And they were right! Since the four major gaps in the pipes had been fixed, that freed up the rest of the pinprick holes in the pipes to step it up and truly shine. (In the form of breaking open completely.)

I asked one of the plumbers if it was the worst he'd ever seen.

"No way," he said. "Top three, though. Definitely. God, this is bad."

And the insurance check which we had oh-so-recently been [tentatively] approved for? That whole "complete renovation of a bathroom" and "majority of the plumbing work" check? Yeah, that's getting scrapped for now, as we all recalculate how much it'll cost to take the bathroom down to the studs, re-line the entirety of the sewer pipeline, and gut the majority of the lower level's flooring and walls.

Nora saw me cry. The plumber saw me cry. Heck, the guy driving the Speedy Express van and dropping off a package from Amazon.com saw me cry.

Did I mention that we have guests coming this afternoon and staying until Monday?

Before the plumbers left yesterday, they headed into our main floor bathroom for a quick de-clogging of the sink- something which was "a cinch" to do (and something which I'm pretty sure they're no longer charging us for at this point). And there was a clog, all right, but the majority of the problem likely stemmed from the fact that the pipe leading from the sink HAD NEVER BEEN GLUED INTO THE DAMN WALL. Just hanging out. A free agent, if you will. So they glued a new one into place, since- hadn't you guessed?- the previously unglued one had also completely rotted out.

The plumbers joked that they'd have to rip out the wall and see about all of these pipes. Ha HA. Plumbers are hilarious.

And last night was spent cleaning literally inches of concrete dust off of things on every floor. Thick, sticky debris required multiple dustings and even more go-rounds with the mop. And it's still filthy. And really, really smelly.

P.J. saw me cry. The cats saw me cry. My woefully low bottle of Peppermint Schnapps saw me cry.

A completely hypothetical question to all homeowners: Was there a point in your homeownership where you realized that you would never recoup your money spent? Was it within the first three years?

Just asking.

Daylight Savings AGAIN?!

Out of sorts. But not Emo malaise.

It has come to my attention- and not for the first time, either- that the institution of Daylight Savings is a terrible idea. Truly awful.

Lemme 'splain.

1. Neither I, nor anyone in my immediate family or scope of reference, has now or at any time been A FARMER. I care not about an extra hour of crop harvestin'. Or an hour less. (I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHICH ONE IT BENEFITS.) All know is that it is now getting dark at 4:30pm. And my internal clock has no idea when Jeopardy should be on.

2. Babies and/or toddlers have no respect for this time change. They still get up when they get up- except now it can happen as early as 5am. Naptime has the potential to blend with lunchtime, sometimes rendering both events nonexistent. You know what's better than a two year-old who has forgone eating and sleeping?

Absolutely anything you could list. Anything is better than that.

3. There is the distinct possibility that you'll forget to change at least one crucial time-telling device in your home- sometimes it's the car- leaving one with an awfully Twighlight Zoney feeling (at best) and gut-clenching panic at one's own tardiness (at worst). Or it can manifest itself as a vaguely uneasy confusion every time one checks a clock. I readily admit, this could just be me.

4. Even an hour difference makes me feel like I've just taken the red eye from Brussels. And jet lag without even getting served international airline food is not any jet lag worth having, thankyouverymuch.

I like my hours ordered the way they're supposed to be. 7, 8, 9am- I like those hours to look like those hours and feel like them when I see my phone display. 4, 5, 6am- I don't like those hours, overmuch, but I'd prefer to not be shocked by them.

Well, no more shocked than the startling realization that, between those hours, I've become a veritable 7-11 for the snacky newborn set.

But that's a different Letter Of Great Concern.

These Are My Current Events, Darnit.

THIS is what "30s With Kids" looks like.
Hoodies and kitchen floors.
Nary a sensible handbag.

Okay, now I'm not one to dwell [overmuch, publicly] on things, but...

Seriously. The ending of the seventh Harry Potter movie (Part 2, if you will, of The Deathly Hallows). And I swear that this is not a spoiler. Not unless you like wardrobe choice to be a tightly held secret. (Like a royal wedding!)

Yeah, yeah, Voldemort (we can say his name now, yes?) and Snape and Harry Potter and yesyesyes, all of that.

But that last scene on the train platform? Nineteen years have passed. The "kids" are sending their own kids off to Hogwarts. They are a mere five years older than I am at the very time of this posting.

So why are they so frumpy and old-looking?

It looks like they're playing dress-up. Ginny Weasley has a sensible bob and the mommiest purse I've ever seen in my life. Ron has a paunch and a wide forehead. Harry has prosthetic wrinkles (wrinkles!!) and a blazer. HERMIONE HAS HER HAIR IN A FRENCH TWIST.

Seriously. I understand that they needed some props to age these youngsters, but really? P.J. and I discussed what we'd be wearing if we drove to the train station to see our kids off to boarding school; jeans and hoodies. Same as we wear every day. And sure, the Harry Potter kids have been wearing that very outfit since movie One. So it wouldn't really have the aging effect the studio was looking for, I get that.

But there is an awfully big difference between looking 36 and looking 76. (There is, isn't there? Tell me there is. Would I look that old on a train platform? Tell me my butt wouldn't look that wide as I embraced by 11 year-old. TELL ME.)

I saw this movie exactly a week ago. And I am haunted- HAUNTED- by this scene. Basically what the film industry is telling me is that- barring turning yourself into some sort of "real" housewife or glamorously and vigorously anti-aging yourself into a Botoxed wonder- the rest of us jerks look like this in their mind's eye.

At 36.

I am going Sexy Purse shopping.

Best. Résumé. Ever.

I [try to] make it a habit to not mock people. Truly.

But every now and again, something simply amazing crosses one's desk. Namely mine. And even though I cannot say whose impressive stats these are- nor how I received this gem- I felt that I had to share.

I give you Julia: 
 
But Keely, you say. That's nearly impossible to read! I know. Apparently in whatever region of the world in which this chick resides, the mimeograph machine is still alive and well. Adding to the background distortion is the unfortunate stationary choice of small, grey, musical notes.

I shall sum up.

Julia is looking to be a secretary. Or something in the "sales/manage" field. (Very lucrative, that.) She offers to furnish recommendations, but they are not attached- oh no, not our Julia. Keep 'em guessing. This seems to be a skill that has served her well in her past TWELVE FULL-TIME JOBS. And considering that she has a newborn son (we'll get to that later), I can't imagine she's geriatric.

She offers to work weekends- with notice. Don't go pulling out the last minute phone calls here, no sir. That will not play.

However, she was let go from her first listed job because she had to care for the aforementioned newborn son. The manager wouldn't accommodate her. Those fragrance counter bosses are jerks.

Her second most recent job was as a server (where she "served food to customers"- ah) which had to end because she wanted to work nearer to home. Also, "business slowed." Legit.

The next server job ended when she moved- this happens.


The restaurant job right before this told her she was "not needed." Right. Okay, Julia, I'm on your side.

Listed after that one was a restaurant where she she "served food and beverages." Emphasis mine. Good for you, J! Except- oh man- the cook "served too hot a plate- reheated" and you were "burnt and hurt." I would've quit, too. (Except my Dad would've told me to wear long sleeves and buck up. Whatever. Different styles, that's all.)

Then comes a waitress and bartending gig that turned out to be too far to drive in winter. You're killing me here, Julia.

This was preceded- incongruously enough- by a UPS job as a loader where you lost your job because of pneumonia. This sounds...improbable. BUT I WISH FOR HER TO SUCCEED so I continue reading on to...

...Another restaurant job where she left to- "care for son." Hmm. This wouldn't be the newborn, would it? Did she have all of these jobs within four months of giving birth?!

Then we've got bartending at Applebee's. And the reason we left- again- is "childcare." I'm starting to doubt either that a) Julia desires to work outside of the perimeter of her yard and b) that these "children" are real. Photographic evidence, please.

Another server job- except that this place was closing. I hear that. And she wanted to "work closer to home." JULIA!

Right before this was a semi-successful stint as a server and "inline dancer" that was abruptly ended when she was "hurt at dishwasher broke glass cut deep and manager not aware of problem in restaurant." Was he inline dancing? Was he also aware of the grammar problem in résumé ?

The oldest job was- yet again- a waitressing job gone bad. (Where the heck did UPS come from?) This time she had to leave because there weren't "enough computers to get work finished for serving." Which is compelling. Yet I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that maybe one's kids were involved. Or the proximity to someone's home. Maybe they made her dance.

She sums all of this up in a tidy paragraph reiterating that the aforementioned are all places at which she has worked. Adding to this list of skills are the curiously capitalized Secretary, Engineering Science, Architecture, Piano, Saxophone, 4-H, Modeling, Manager, and Assistant Manager (at a Mall.) Of lesser importance- and thusly not capitalized- are drafter, estimator, sewing, crafts, and makeup.

She has [unlisted] "retail experience."

Oh, and that year of Saxophone? She was privately tutored by someone who "graduated the Julia rd [sic] Music School."

I think she'll be just fine. How could she not? After all, she was a model.

And an estimator.

I have an estimation or two right now. More an "odds" kinda thing.

I've always been good with numbers, especially if they're of the two-step variety. But before you get too excited...

...I'm no Julia.

Did I just nickname my blog?

Leaves a bad taste in my mouth, too.

So many good and positive things have happened lately- the kind of stuff that makes me really dig my life and reflect on how blessed we all truly are.

Also.

There's been a slooowly growing list of minor irritations that, if left unchecked, could level the entire north side of Chicago.

This is that list.

Politics:
I'm just kidding.
While there certainly are plenty o' things to find a) hilarious, b) sad, or c) infuriating in the current political arena...that is NOT the job (nor point) of the Loll Blog. L'blog? LoBlo? I like LoBlo.
Besides, I know so many other folks who can (and will) give those shenanigans their proper [written] due. I'd instead like to focus my extremely narrow attentions on-

Unsubscribing:
Why must I wait ten business days to stop receiving spam email correspondence? Really, ten days? You have no problem hammering out insignificant updates of things for which I do not recall signing up and yet no one's manning the store? Ten days? Are you on safari? Take me off of your list. I could WALK there in ten days.

Incorrect Decorations:
Yes, I realize that none of this is groundbreaking...but come on. Costco is decorating for Christmas at the end of September? Real Simple magazine's Thanksgiving issue is 3/4 Christmas ideas, tips, gifts and budgeting? Why hasn't this been properly dealt with yet? Christmas season= the day after Thanksgiving to the day before New Year's Eve. (There. It's been decided.)

It gets earlier and earlier each year. I have a very real fear of this pre-sale stuff going back and back until it actually gets right back on track for the actual holiday season. Only catch is: you're a year too early. Then what?

Improper Bummage:
Seriously- leggings are not legit pantsware. Use this handy dandy rule of thumb: if you would not wear tights that revealed as much, do not ask things of your leggings that it can not deliver. Again, leggings= really thick tights. Not pants. If I must see your spandex-clad bum, you'd better be: a) leading the Peloton in the Tour de France, or b) on the 1996 Olympic women's gymnastics team. (Okay, it could be any gymnastics team I suppose- but weren't they incredible? Oh, Kerri Strug.)

To reiterate: wearing leggings with an indecent mini skirt does not lengthen the skirt nor affect the acceptability therein. It simply makes your legs a different [loose-moraled] color.

Being A Terrible Person, i.e. Do Not Do This To Me:
Let's say, hypothetically, that I'm patiently waiting for a parking spot at a popular children's sporting venue. (The typical sports class generally has seven or eight kids. About six classes are running simultaneously. The parking lots allows for- oh, nine parked cars.) There are painted arrows that helpfully guide the direction of In and Out, This Way and That, Stay On the Right, etc., all kinds of good things that validly licensed American drivers [should] know. And let's pretend that I left ten minutes early to queue up for this mind-destroying melee of really nice cars...and mine. And, oh, let's just go ahead and admit that I was second in line. And saw two cars pull out and leave before the class even started- which is crazy unheard of- and perhaps even that my panicked, hardened and adrenalined heart got kinda excited.

And so the first car- the one ahead of me- parked. And I wished them well. Then, being the good-hearted, law-abiding citizen that I am, I allowed them to straighten their car. After all, my time wasn't any more or less valuable than theirs, am I right? And what would I have to show for a dinged-up fender other than Loud Words with someone to whom I may or may not be legally wed?

But as I turned the corner to take my rightful spot, a car zipped in through the exit and parked in it. Poorly. As I sat there, mouth agape, giving her the universal sign for Are you kidding me, she flipped (flipped!) her hair at me, scoffed and pointed at her kids and then the door as if to say I have to go inside for a class.


OH MY GOD, BY ALL MEANS. You're here for a CLASS? Don't mind me- just huffing some carbon monoxide and singing You Are My Sunshine to quell the kiddos (that do not rank quite as highly as yours, obvie) for the eleventieth time.

Enjoy your latte.

And the one and a half spots you've somehow managed to find and squander.

I'll wait. And remember.

(I feel much better now...my neighborhood is safe from my rage. But seriously-)

I'll remember.

Computer screens are kinda reflective, too...

Just so you're all aware- September is 10pm Bedtime Month. This isn't a national thing or even a local thing, overmuch. Okay, maybe really locally, like the third floor of my house.

This is why we've been colossal lame-os for- oh, the last week. We eventually got tired of being tired all the time. (Initially, the proposal was for 9pm Bedtime Month but, as was pointed out to us- Thanks, Mom- 9pm is an awfully ambitious bedtime for people who like to do things such as eat dinner and acknowledge the other party in their marriage. And it is a party.) It's been going well, insofar as we've actually conked out on the couch at 9:30 a couple of times and disregarded it entirely Saturday night. (12:30- woo! Take off the lampshade, P.J.!)

Also, are you aware of how much time is wasted in that hour after dinner/kiddo's bath/kiddo's bedtime/hosing down of the homestead? That's usually when we find ourselves flopping on furniture and whining about how TIRED we are and how much we have to DO. That usually kills about an hour. Ironically, this was the hour that we reserved for Getting Things Done. Most likely, we'll ultimately find that we really don't have anything that we need to be doing, ever. That would be great.

Here were our obstacles and strengths: I don't like to go to bed super early 'cause I don't want to miss anything...but I'm quite good at writing something down and sticking to it. P.J. doesn't believe in "bedtime" if there's stuff to do like rewiring the downstairs or cleaning the gutters...but if there's any type of media present and a couch or two, he can be out like a light in ten seconds. So we've started watching movies in our bedroom around 9pm, knowing full well that I'll feel like it's a special occasion and P.J. will be lulled to sleep by the end of the opening sequence. Especially if it's subtitled.

This past weekend was one of enforced hibernation, which we thought would go hand in hand with the early bedtime thing. (I can see our list of pals slooooowly dropping away. Sigh.)

We organized all of our vinyl albums- no small task, as we've probably acquired a few hundred by this point- into stuff we need to have in the living room with the record player (Boston, Frank Sinatra, Burns & Allen Radio Hour, etc.) and stuff that could hang out in the newly available rec room off of the family room/Nora's Zone O' Toys (Christmas stuff, a positively alarming amount of Julie London records, etc). Shelves were hung- finally- and yet more mirrors now grace our walls, nooks, hallways, etc. Little known fact: Schoenys cannot walk by a mirror without turning and peeking at their reflection. True story. They can carry on convos and even be surreptitious about it- but no reflective surface can be passed without even a cursory glance.  This includes storefront windows and stainless steel fridges. The little one now winks at herself.

She gets that from her Dad, like everything else on her face.

The only time we left our property was when we had definite outdoorsy destination in mind- no more than ten minutes away, walking. Turns out we didn't need to venture all that far. Over Labor Day weekend other holidays were celebrated: The 100th anniversary of Our Lady of Mercy, the gold domed church up the block that celebrates each mass afterwards with amazing Mexican and Filipino food on its stoop, and the Central American parade that went by our block- not to be confused with last month's Ecuadorian parade nor next week's Mexican Independence Day parade. Seriously, it's been a nonstop march of crepe paper and mariachis all summer. It is THE BEST.

We took Nora over to the church's street fest for a lunch of flautas and arroz con pollo- and to allow yet more people to say hello to our "little boy." (Actual question- is pink a traditional boy color in Hispanic cultures? I would truly be unsurprised to find out that this is so.) Some teenagers performed a nifty Filipino bamboo dance...followed up by six year-olds dancing to that traditional tune, 'Pokerface' by Lady Gaga.

And a really nice gal approached me with an obvious case of mistaken identity (at least I think so- my pregnancy brain should all but be dissipated by now, yes?) and asked about my life, and so-and-so, and was I still doing whatnot? So, another burning question: is it more polite to vaguely play along in these situations, or to bluntly admit that I don't know her from Joe- or José - but that the other gal sounded really great? It's true. This Other Me apparently works with children in theatre- both things that I have done, sure- but she somehow seemed more altruistic and giving.

Because I totally went along with it. And when she told me that my son was lovely...

...I thanked her.

Reluctant parrots, Double bears & Nekkie wombats

Nora and I are currently on Day 4 of a four day work week. Granted, compared to my past schedules that used to total 50+ hours a week, it's positively relaxing- but we're used to the One Day On One Day Off workaday life. This kinda feels like bootcamp. (However, as I type this, 2-year old Lil is stirring in her bed for the day and Nora Jane is snoozing in her car seat, clutching Otto the otter like a flotation device. So, uh, wah wah, right? Yes.

I love my jobs. I love my families. My work options are so much cooler than I'd even hoped they'd be when I got pregnant. That said, yesterday I ran after a screaming miniature person WHILE breastfeeding Nora. (Is this a lot of info?) Turns out, she's extraordinarily portable and is kinda okay with meals-to-go. (Like a milkshake! Ew.)

It's been pretty exceptional to have every other morning with just Nora and have her smile peacefully at me- as opposed to the terrified wince toward flying objects, shrieking pitches and sudden immersion into the frigid Chicago air. Plus, whenever we go outside, I'm forced to layer the fleece car seat cover over her head for the quick trip into the car; 6:30am air in February feels like daggers on one's eyeballs. I'd like to give her eyeballs a chance. She doesn't care for the fleece-over-face action. I don't blame her. She's like a reluctant parrot, refusing to acknowledge the onset of dark. (Plus, I shove extra blankies, lovies, mittens and burp cloths into the car seat under her toes. So make that a reluctant CROWDED parrot.)

And it's been so cold and snowy that even when she doesn't have to endure the indignity of a blanket wrapped around her head, she does have to put up with the layering of hats under hoodies. Most articles of her clothing possess ears, leading us to dub such bundlings a Double Bear. She does not enjoy the Double Bear, either.

Thankfully, tomorrow morning she can be a Nekkie Wombat.

But because of the rushed mornings and crazytown days, I've acquired a list of Burning Questions that I can neither answer nor find time to Google. Help me, will you?

1) Why does a cut on your [my] pointer finger hurt worse than recovery from a c-section? And why does a bandaid refuse to stay put on such a wound? It's like a flap of skin that exposes the bone at this point. Do you know what gets in there and makes it even worse? EVERYTHING.

2) Why do Pampers have diaper stripes on them to indicate wetness? (Thanks, Michelle- I'd been wondering about this one, too!) I mean, it's kinda cute to be all, "Look, the stripe is BLUE, she must have PEED," but seriously. do you know how I tell when Nora needs to be changed? It's the trifecta called She's Very Heavy/What's That Smell/Why Is She Screaming? If all else fails, poke her bum. Sure, sure, babies' bums are squishy by nature, but they shouldn't feel like those Victoria's Secret water bras. (THAT is ANOTHER question...)

3) Why do I turn into Law Abiding Citizen whenever I pass a police cruiser in traffic? I'm no Johnny Rebel to begin with, but I find that I become extra "good," more attentive and polite, heck, even my posture improves. This is embarrassing. And on the topic of driving around town, have you ever noticed that the cars with the pro-Armed Forces bumper stickers also have flags that seem to defiantly wave in a frantic, patriotic manner? (Patrioticpatrioticpatriotic, they seem to yell.) Also- when one happens to speed through a yellow light, why is the customary reaction a high-pitched, singsongy "Soooooory!" Others outside of the car cannot hear your humorously self-effacing tone of acknowledgment, they just think you're a jerk.

4) Why is the hard Jello skin the worst feeling to ever feel in one's mouth? And why won't anyone eat the Jigglers in the fridge? (True story- the Chicago Dramatists' Network Playwright meeting was a couple of weeks ago and it was potluck. Outta luck- everything in the house had gone to pot. Except for two boxes of Jello. One was orange, the least-favored flavor ever. For anything. I actually failed to make Jello Jigglers. Yep, couldn't even get that done in time. So, I bought a bag of cookies and left the Jigglers in the fridge to, um, congeal. At press time, the congealed orange Jigglers were in no actual danger of being eaten.)

5) Do jeans *sometimes* go in the dark laundry load and *sometimes* in the light? I've really never been able to wrap my head around this one. What about stonewash jeans? And are those actually washed with stones? And why haven't I seen them in awhile? Ripped jeans never went out of fashion, why the wash o' stone?

6) Why does 70 degrees out of doors feel like summer and make you wanna plant a tree or, I don't know, set up a profitable lemonade stand that also sells classy leaf rubbings...when 70 degrees INSIDE drafty old house feels like the Arctic Circle itself and make you want to yell at your [or anyone's] husband?

These are questions needing prompt answers. If I MUST wait until after work to deal with these, I'll probably search online. Or call my sisters so THEY can search online. Ooh, or maybe I'll wait and write in to Parade Magazine!

I feel a 'steak dinner' bet coming on.